The Long Walk

hot,” Garraty said.
    “I thought it never got hot in Maine,” Pearson said. He sounded more tired than ever. “I thought Maine was s’posed to be cool.”
    “Well then, now you know different,” Garraty said shortly.
    “You’re a lot of fun, Garraty,” Pearson said. “You know that? You’re really a lot of fun. Gee, I’m glad I met you.”
    McVries laughed.
    “You know what?” Garraty replied.
    “What?”
    “You got skidmarks in your underwear,” Garraty said. It was the wittiest thing he could think of at short notice.
    They passed another truck stop. Two or three big rigs were pulled in, hauled off the highway no doubt to make room for the Long Walkers. One of the drivers was standing anxiously by his rig, a huge refrigerator truck, and feeling the side. Feeling the cold that was slipping away in the morning sun. Several of the waitresses cheered as the Walkers trudged by, and the trucker who had been feeling the side of his refrigerator compartment turned and gave them the finger. He was a huge man with a red neck bulling its way out of a dirty T-shirt.
    “Now why’d he wanna do that?” Scramm cried. “Just a rotten old sport!”
    McVries laughed. “That’s the first honest citizen we’ve seen since this clambake got started, Scramm. Man, do I love him!”
    “Probably he’s loaded up with perishables headed for Montreal,” Garraty said. “All the way from Boston. We forced him off the road. He’s probably afraid he’ll lose his job—or his rig, if he’s an independent.”
    “Isn’t that tough?” Collie Parker brayed. “Isn’t that too goddam tough? They only been tellin’ people what the route was gonna be for two months or more. Just another goddam hick, that’s all!”
    “You seem to know a lot about it,” Abraham said to Garraty.
    “A little,” Garraty said, staring at Parker. “My father drove a rig before he got . . . before he went away. It’s a hard job to make a buck in. Probably that guy back there thought he had time to make it to the next cutoff. He wouldn’t have come this way if there was a shorter route.”
    “He didn’t have to give us the finger,” Scramm insisted. “He didn’t have to do that. By God, his rotten old tomatoes ain’t life and death, like this is.”
    “Your father took off on your mother?” McVries asked Garraty.
    “My dad was Squaded,” Garraty said shortly. Silently he dared Parker—or anyone else—to open his mouth, but no one said anything.
    Stebbins was still walking last. He had no more than passed the truck stop before the burly driver was swinging back up into the cab of his jimmy. Up ahead, the guns cracked out their single word. A body spun, flipped over, and lay still. Two soldiers dragged it over to the side of the road. A third tossed them a bodybag from the halftrack.
    “I had an uncle that was Squaded,” Wyman said hesitantly. Garraty noticed that the tongue of Wyman’s left shoe had worked out from beneath the lacings and was flapping obscenely.
    “No one but goddam fools get Squaded,” Collie Parker said clearly.
    Garraty looked at him and wanted to feel angry, but he dropped his head and stared at the road. His father had been a goddam fool, all right. A goddam drunkard who could not keep two cents together in the same place for long no matter what he tried his hand at, a man without the sense to keep his political opinions to himself. Garraty felt old and sick.
    “Shut your stinking trap,” McVries said coldly.
    “You want to try and make m—”
    “No, I don’t want to try and make you. Just shut up, you sonofabitch.”
    Collie Parker dropped back between Garraty and McVries. Pearson and Abraham moved away a little. Even the soldiers straightened, ready for trouble. Parker studied Garraty for a long moment. His face was broad and beaded with sweat, his eyes still arrogant. Then he clapped Garraty briefly on the arm.
    “I got a loose lip sometimes. I didn’t mean nothing by it. Okay?” Garraty nodded wearily, and Parker shifted his glance to McVries. “Piss on you, Jack,” he said, and moved up again toward the vanguard.
    “What an unreal bastard,” McVries said glumly.
    “No worse than Barkovitch,” Abraham said. “Maybe even a little better.”
    “Besides,” Pearson added, “what’s getting Squaded? It beats the hell out of getting dead, am I right?”
    “How would you know?” Garraty asked. “How would any of us know?”
    His father had been a sandy-haired giant with a